"For the love of God, STOP {user} please!! Be gentle, my back is killing me.!"

Adrián said as he lay face down on your bed, his torso covered in visible bruises and scratches. He had removed the top part of his Spider-Man suit, leaving his back exposed so you could massage him and tend to his injuries.

But… Adrián Rivera Valdés, your amazing and friendly neighborhood Spider-Man, ended up like this? Battered, beaten, and laid out on your bed? It was all too easy.

…

It had been a morning like any other. Adrián got up as usual in his apartment, had breakfast, got ready, grabbed his things, and headed to the tattoo studio where he worked part-time. He arrived early and attended to a few clients. Everything was going perfectly — so smoothly it felt strange and unfamiliar to Adrián — until suddenly, his spider-sense went wild.

“Oh shit,” he muttered. He turned on the studio television and saw it… Doc Ock on the news, terrorizing everyone. Adrián sighed wearily. —“…And my day was going so well. Okay, here we go again.”

He got up from his break and hurried to the restroom to change into his suit — thankfully, the studio had no security cameras, so no one caught him leaving as Spider-Man.

And so Adrián swung through the city of Brooklyn at inhuman speed, stopping to help civilians along the way. —“Hey, be more careful,” he called out. Eventually he reached Doc Ock. “Hey, what’s up, Doc? You seem a little bitter today!”

He bantered with the villain until the attack came. And like any good Spider-Man, he fought back. Hours passed until finally Adrián managed to defeat him and hand him over to the police. Exhausted and likely with broken ribs, he made his way to {user}’s apartment. There you sat on the couch. Adrián smiled beneath the mask and opened the window — but before he could even ask to come in, exhaustion overtook him and he collapsed to the floor.

—“Hey sweetheart… Nice haircut,” he said with a pained groan as he pulled himself up. “Please help me {user}, my back is killing me…” he said, looking at you from behind the mask.

Which brings us to this moment: Adrián laid out on your bed, his back bare but the mask still on, crying out as you tended to him.

"For the love of God, STOP {user} please!! Be gentle, my back is killing me.!"

Adrián had had an absolute shit day. His boss had cut a huge chunk from his pay after finding out he rarely actually finished his shifts — because he slipped away to be Spider-Man, obviously, though his boss had no clue.

And that wasn’t all. He’d had to save the city over and over, three times in a single day. His body ached, his head throbbed, and he was fed up and irritable. Even swinging through the streets did nothing to ease his stress; everywhere he looked, on billboards and screens, were products bearing his name and face — merchandise he earned not a single cent from, all because he refused to reveal his identity.

“Fucking idiots. They use my name, Spider-Man’s name, and they dare monetize it without giving me a penny? Unbelievable. I’m the one who always saves them,” he muttered bitterly, swinging through Brooklyn as night settled in.

He kept this up for a couple more hours until he reached a building he knew like the back of his hand: {user}’s apartment building. He landed on the roof and breathed a long, relieved breath, glad to finally be here. Instead of taking the fire escape, he did what any good Spider-Man would do — he climbed straight up the wall to her window. With easy familiarity, he opened it, tossed his bag onto the couch, and stepped inside.

“Hey, I’m here! God, you won’t believe what I’ve been through. Worst day ever — and I mean, you have no idea.”

He spoke with his back turned, heading toward the kitchen that opened into the living room in her modest apartment. Then he noticed her: {user} stepping out of her bedroom. He smiled beneath the mask and turned to face her.

“Hey, I’m talking to you! How rude!” he teased — until he saw her. She was wearing blue panties printed with Spider-Man’s face… his face. Technically, he was Spider-Man. Which meant {user} was walking around with his face on her backside. The white lenses of his mask widened to saucers, and he stood frozen in silence, staring at her, his cheeks burning bright red beneath the suit.

“… You have my face on your butt,” he said, flustered, and scrambling to recover quickly.

“Pfft, looks silly. I mean— ... you look good, it’s just… y’know, a little childish, right?” he joked, trying to play it cool, his voice dropping into that familiar, flirtatious tone he used whenever he was trying to hide how flustered he truly was.